The Very Indecent Proposal
by Kagu-tsuchi-13
Summary: Quinn Fabray decided that she was going to have a baby by any means necessary, even if it meant getting knocked up by none other than Rachel Berry.
1. Offer She Can't Refuse

Quinn Fabray's senior year was turning out to be quite eventful. She had a lot going on, what with quitting New Directions, joining a gang of wannabe thugs and punks, and trying and failing multiple times to get back her daughter, who she was convinced was rightfully hers. After all, it did come out of her you know what, and she had the stretch marks to prove it.

Too bad Shelby and the courts didn't see it that way. It was clear that she wasn't getting Beth back anytime soon or possibly ever. So she turned to plan B. She would just get knocked up again. It happened once and she wasn't even trying that time. It would be even easier to get knocked up a second time. Right?

Wrong.

She had of course turned to the father of her first child; who was more than willing to hook up with her, until he learned her true motives.

After that, she began making a list of potential candidates. Not just any sperm would do; she wanted someone good looking, smart, hard working, and goal oriented, in hopes that one day they could leave the cesspool known as Lima, Ohio.

When it came to all that the candidates were slim picking, but Quinn Fabray never gave up on anything. She was determined to have a child and she would do whatever it took to see to it that she succeeded.

* * *

At the moment, she was in the middle of interviewing one of her choices. He had been very hard to track down and even harder to get a hold of. After making several calls and puling a few strings, she was able to speak to him.

"I am flattered that you thought of me, especially given our history," Sam said as he rubbed oil all over his perfectly defined abdomen.

"I'll be honest, you weren't my first choice, but you have all the traits I look for in a potential father," Quinn informed the man as she clutched his firm buttocks. "I really admire that you help out your family."

"I would do anything for my family," he agreed as he shook his glistening chest in her's face. "Expenses really add up. Even though we live comfortably, I like to think of a rainy day."

"That's why you would make a perfect father, you are already a better father than mine was," she informed him while he wildly swung his hair in her face.

"I am touched, but I can't be your baby daddy. I do want a son oneday," he admitted while he did pelvic thrusts. "But when I do have one, I plan to be there for him, playing catch, going to games, fishing at the docks while telling him stories about my crazy high school adventures."

"That is perfectly understandable," Quinn agreed as she stuck another single in his g-string. "I hate that I won't be there for Beth during all her important moments."

"At least you know that she is being raised by someone that cares about her," he pointed out while he shook his head back and forth to the song. "Look at how many kids get put in foster homes and get stuck with families that don't treat them right or care about their well being."

"I know, and I am glad that she has a loving home," she agreed as Sam pulled himself off of her. "I couldn't live with myself if she ended up with someone like Terri."

"Thanks for considering me, tell the others I said hi," he told her as he started to walk away.

"Oh, one more thing," Quinn said, causing him to turn around." I believe I paid for a full dance."

Groaning, Sam remounted her while muttering about how he hated his job all while Quinn smirked and asked a waiter for more singles.

* * *

Quinn sighed as she got into her car. She crossed Sam off her list of possible baby daddies. Even worse, he was the last name on the list. Well, other than one, but she had mostly put that as a joke; she didn't even know if the person could father a child.

Still Puck, Finn, Rick the Stick, and even Artie had turned down her offer once they found out that she only wanted to get with them to get knocked up. She had even asked Kurt and Blaine, who only laughed.

She took another look at the last name, Rachel Berry. Yes, Rachel Berry, high maintenance, solo-hog, crush anyone who got in her way diva. The same woman who's actions ended up causing New Directions to lose several of it's members.

There was the obvious question of not only why Rachel, but how, seeing as she was of the female nature.

The why was rather simple. Rachel was everything that Quinn was looking for in a father and then some. She was beautiful as Quinn had admired from afar for the last two years. Even though she wasn't much on academics, she made up for it in her street smarts, while still maintaining a bit of naivety. And there was no denying that the woman was hard working and goal oriented. She would do anything, besides nudity, to get to the top. All the traits that Quinn wanted in her child.

And the other thing?

Well, there had been a rumor in ninth grade that hidden in Rachel Berry's ugly cargo shorts was something that women are not supposed to have. That's right, a penis.

From what had gotten back to Quinn from her personal source, some guy took Rachel out to dinner and a movie and tried to get some action, despite her repeated nos and 'I'm not that kind of girl'. The guy apparently decided that she owed him and forced his way into her red and white striped Hanes panties and got a big surprise.

After that, he went around telling everyone that Rachel Berry, the girl that was convinced that she was going to be the next Cher, was more likely to be the next Sonny.

Since it had came from a nobody freshman who everyone just assumed was bitter because he didn't get any, no one paid it any mind. Still, of all the things the guy could have said, saying that a woman has a dick was something that could have easily been disproven. Quinn knew that there just had to be something there, and she was going to get it straight from the horse's mouth.

* * *

Rachel always stuck around after rehearsal to work on her high notes. She was spending even more time on it now that she was working on her NYADA audition. That and the fact that Mercedes and Kurt weren't speaking to her.

Now that she was done with that, she was removing her make up so she could go home. While doing so, she caught a glance of her teammate standing behind her in her mirror. "Hey Quinn, I'll be done in a sec," Rachel greeted warmly while removing her mascara.

"That's okay, I was actually needing to see you," Quinn responded, her voice eerily sweet.

"I know what this is about," Rachel said as she set her brush down and rose to look at her teammate face to face.

"You do?"

"I didn't want to say anything in front of the others, but I noticed that you were singing off key during Maggie May," she informed her causal friend. "Don't worry, with some practice I am sure you can get it."

Quinn let off what sounded like a sigh of relief. Then with no warning, stuck her hand in Rachel's shorts and began fishing around.

"Quinn!" she cried at having an unfamiliar hand in an area that was off limits to the public. "Wh..at are you?"

Quinn didn't respond, just continued letting her hand navigate until Rachel felt her grab something that she didn't want anyone to know she had.

"Hmm," Quinn said, clutching it firmly. "What is this? Do you normally keep a salami between your legs?"

"Please, stop," she begged, not believing that Quinn Fabray of all people would just walk in and start violating her.

"Not until you tell me what I am grasping," she demanded. "Unless you would rather show me."

Rachel looked horror stricken, even more than in the third grade when Lacy Nielson got to play the lead pilgrim in the Thanksgiving play instead of her. Not seeing any way around it, she admitted, "I..I..have.."

"You have a penis," Quinn finished for her, pulling her hand out as she did.

"Yes," Rachel admitted, her normally rosy cheeks turning a bright crimson.

"Are you a dude?" Quinn questioned while sticking her hand on the Rachel's chest. "Are these implants?"

"No," Rachel stated firmly, knocking her hand away. "I am a woman. And I have female genitalia. I just also happen to have a...you know."

"How, is it because you have two gay fathers?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "The doctors were miffed, everything else was completely normal, other than that. The doctors wanted to remove it, but the surgery was too dangerous, so I was forced to keep it."

"But how did you keep Finn and Jesse from finding out when you did it?"

"I never did it with Jesse or Finn," she admitted, wondering why she was telling all this to the person in front of her. And more importantly, how Quinn even found out in the first place.

Quinn was silent for a moment, likely taking all this in. Finally, she spoke. "What is keeping me from telling the whole school that Rachel Berry has a dick?"

"No one would believe you," Rachel declared, feeling either bold or suicidal. "It's not like you don't have a history of making things up."

"I was the most popular girl in school, and I still have plenty of connections," Quinn retaliated. "I could say that Natalie Portman had a three way with Brad Pitt and Barack Obama and everyone would believe me."

"Why are you doing this?" Rachel sobbed, wondering where this hostility was coming from. She could understand Mercedes, with her taking the part she wanted, or Kurt, with her running against him for president. But what had she done to the woman in front of her? Recently anyway.

"I want a baby."

"But what do I have to do with that?" Rachel asked, highly confused as to why she was being singled out. She knew that her biological mother was raising the daughter of the woman in front of her, but she had nothing to do with that. She only heard from Shelby on her birthday and Christmas when she sent her a card and didn't even have the audacity to put any money in it.

"Oh, nothing yet, but you will," Quinn informed, looking a lot like Hannibal Lecter at the moment. "Unless you would prefer that I tell everyone that there is more to Rachel Berry than just a big nose and an even bigger ego."

"Please don't tell. This is my last year here, I have big plans. Imagine what Dalton or Carmel would do if word got around that the best vocalist in New Directions has uh, well you felt it," Rachel begged, almost on the verge of tears.

"I won't tell anyone," Quinn agreed, the diabolical smile still plastered on her face, "on one condition."

"What?" Rachel asked, already knowing that she wasn't going to like what the the condition was.

"Be the father of my child," she stated flatly, a very serous look on her face.

Rachel blinked twice. Did Quinn just ask her to-? "Uh, I don't think you paid attention to Ms. Pillsbury's lectures," she pointed out, "because you need a man to-."

"You have a dick, I just felt it!" Quinn interrupted, her voice level rising.

"Yeah, but-," Rachel tried to start, before being interrupted again.

"And you can produce sperm, can't you?" she went on, not letting Rachel get two words in.

"I..I think. I mean, once I..tried it out..and something..uh white...I guess..it might," she rambled, not believing that she was having a conversation with one of her teammates about the organ that she shouldn't have and what it might or might not be able to do.

"That's good enough for me," Quinn declared. "We can always find out ourselves."

"Couldn't I just deposit my you know what..in a cup," Rachel struggled to say. "Like..artificial insemination

"I did the research, intercourse yields a much better chance of pregnancy than insemination. And intercourse cuts out the middleman, just a couple of thrusts and well, you get the picture," Quinn explained. "Plus, I don't trust you with an empty cup, at least this way I know the product will make it to it's destination."

"Yeah, but-."

"I took a test, I am ovulating tomorrow. Be at my place around eightish," she declared before picking up her purse and heading for the the exit. Just as she was about to leave, she turned around again. "Oh and start wearing boxers, I heard it's good for circulation."

Rachel wanted to tell her that that was for the testicles, which she didn't have, but she was long gone before Rachel could even clear her throat..

Well that was something. Somehow, she just got roped into impregnating the girl that spent the last two years making her life at McKinley a living Hell. There were so many unanswered questions; the biggest being could she even impregnate another female?

Even though she had a male sex organ, she had no idea whether or not she produced actual sperm or not. Truth be told, she really didn't like to be reminded that she was a freak, especially when the daily slushie facials already did a good job of that.

Still, Quinn had decided for both of them that she was going to do this. And she knew that Quinn had nothing to lose from revealing her dirty secret to the school. The worst that could happen would be Mr. Schue kicking her out of Glee. And it didn't even seem like she wanted to be there in the first place.

Even more so, she didn't even know why Quinn wanted her sperm in the first place. There were bound to be hundreds of potential guys that would be more than willing to deposit into the bank of Quinn Fabray.

Well, it looked like she was going to have at least one of those questions answered, because whether Rachel Berry wanted to or not, she had a date to knock up Quinn Fabray. Tomorrow was going to be interesting and when you went to this school that was really saying something.


	2. 47 Seconds in Heaven

Something seemed to be different about Quinn Fabray. She walked through the halls of McKinley head held high, radiating a sense of superiority that she hadn't possessed since her head Cheerio days of 2010.

No one could figure out why, but she always did kept her peers guessing. One moment she is head honcho and terrorizing everyone that gets in her way, and the next she is a nobody who takes solace in singing with the school's biggest outcasts.

Though no one paid her much mind anymore, it was almost impossible to not take notice. She seemed to be extra creepy lately, even more so than when she was walking around looking like the girl from the ninja manga.

There were also a few rumors about her floating around; the most popular being that she was carrying Mr. Schuester's love child.

Only Quinn herself knew the reason for her sudden change in attitude. In a little over ten months, she would finally have what she wanted and in her opinion deserved. As much as she tried, she could not hide her optimism as she shuffled through the halls giving anyone that dared glance her way a 'go fuck yourself' look.

She was very grateful that she had found a donor, albeit an unwilling one. Had she not, she might have had to go to Dalton and attempt to get some prep boy sperm. She really didn't want that; the baby might come out wearing one of those ugly blazers.

Not that Rachel Berry was her ideal choice. You are probably thinking it's because of the obvious, but amazingly enough, that wasn't the reason.

While that was a factor; it was more because she was an uber-diva that expected the rest of New Directions to be her backup singers and would throw a hissy fit every time things didn't go her way. Hence why they were now minus several of their best singers.

Still, she did have all the traits that Quinn wanted in a father. Even more-so than the father of her first child. She had a feeling that Beth would be stealing tricycles by the time she was three.

"Quinn, wait up!" a very familiar voice called out. Well, speak of the devil.

She slowed her pace to let him catch up to her, though she had little interest in speaking to the man. "What is it, Noah?" she asked once he was walking next to her.

"I only got two pools to clean this afternoon. Afterwords, you, me, a Digiorno, a six pack of Mike's Hard Lemonade, and my love seat. What do you say?" he asked while sticking his muscular arm on her shoulder.

"Sorry, Noah," she replied, the tone of her voice suggesting she wasn't sorry at all. "I have plans this afternoon."

"Plans, what could be better than spending time with me?"

She considered answering, 'just about anything', then refrained. "Just going to hang out with an acquaintance." She really didn't want to let him know that she was going to get in on with Rachel Berry. With all the criss-cross dating that went on in Glee this would definitely be the strangest, yet.

"Who is the guy? I will kick his ass," he threatened while flaring his traps and making the veins in his arms, which had many types of anabolic steroids running through them, bulge.

"You do not own me," she reminded, pulling herself away from him. "You had your chance and you blew it."

"Are you still upset over the not knocking you up thing?" he questioned, raising his incredibly thick eyebrow. "I miss Beth too, but you cannot keep stressing over this."

"Oh, I am not stressing about it," she informed, her lips twisting into a small smile. "In fact, you could say that the problem has been taken care of."

"How? Did you kidnap Beth or something? Is this going to be on the news?"

"Don't concern yourself with it, Noah." She walked away before he could say anything else. The less that he and everyone else knew about this the better.

* * *

It had been a typical afternoon for the New Directioners. Mr. Schue had given his usual lecture about how they couldn't give up, even if they did lose several of their members. It was inevitable that he would give one of these lectures at least once a week. He believed the club would completely fall apart otherwise. The kids were too polite to tell him that they weren't really worried and they constantly overcame any and all adversity that was thrown at them.

He then gave the assignment, something about feel good love songs or something. For once, Rachel didn't jump up and showcase her seemingly infinite knowledge on all types of white people music. She was too preoccupied with more pressing matters.

Quinn hadn't come to rehearsal today. In fact, she hadn't seen Quinn since their encounter yesterday when she did what she did.

She had replayed that scenario a good hundred times. It was so much to take in: Quinn cornering her, threatening her, touching her...you know what.

She didn't know how Quinn could have found out; the only people that knew were herself, her fathers, her gynecologist, and Marcus. Obviously the first three didn't say anything, and Marcus hadn't had any kind of contact with her since Freshman year.

Part of her wanted to ask Quinn, but the other, more logical part of her told her to leave it alone. Hopefully, Quinn was just joking about knocking her up. Who would be desperate enough to get a girl with a penis to impregnate her?

And even if she was serious, it was very doubtful that the white stuff that she produced even contained potent sperm. Maybe in some story it could work, but this was real life, not some fan-fiction.

While she had been in thought limbo the class had thinned out. She spotted Kurt and Blaine walking by. Kurt gave her no type of acknowledgment while Blaine waved when Kurt wasn't looking. She half-heartily returned it before picking herself up and exiting the room.

She was on her way to her locker when she found herself being pulled into the janitors closet. She was about to scream for help when she saw who it was that dragged her in.

The woman in question had a strange look on her face, looking like she was either constipated or planning world domination.

"Hope you haven't forgotten our plans," Quinn reminded, keeping her deathly grip on Rachel's arm.

"N...n..o.., I still remember," Rachel stuttered, though she was wishing that Quinn hadn't. Even though Quinn was only a few inches taller and likely not much heavier, Rachel was still frightened of her.

Quinn didn't respond, instead used her free hand to pull Rachel's skirt down to her ankles, revealing a pair of blue-green plaid Hanes boxers. "Good, you are wearing boxers," she confirmed, finally releasing her victim from her death grip.

"Yeah, you know that circulation is for the testicles, I don't have those," Rachel pointed out. She had worn boxers anyway, not wanting to incur the wraith of the woman who could easily crush what was left of her high school experience.

"So where does the sperm come from then?"

"I don't know. I don't really do...that a whole lot," Rachel admitted, her face turning crimson. "Maybe you could find someone else to...you know."

Quinn pulled out her phone and stuck it right in Rachel's face. "It would take me no more than a minute to tweet that Rachel Berry has a dick, and I won't even need all 140 characters."

"See you at eight," Rachel said meekly, forced to turn away from the woman that was actually scarier now than in her punk phase.

"See you then," Quinn responded, her voice instantly turning sweet.

* * *

True to her word, Rachel showed up at the Fabray home at eight sharp. She was greeted at the door by Quinn who was clad in baby blue robe.

"Right on time," Quinn said, an eerie smile on her face.

"Yeah," Rachel said, shaking her head as she spoke. "Always prompt."

"And for once it's not annoying," Quinn responded as she moved her body to let Rachel in. Once Rachel had entered, she shut, locked, and dead bolted the door.

Rachel wondered if they were going to get right to it or act like this was a casual visit like when she used to tutor Quinn on her scales.

"Follow me," Quinn ordered as she started up the steps.

That answered that question. Obediently, she followed after while silently wondering how this was going to go down.

* * *

Rachel looked at herself in the mirror; she had stripped down to just boxers; her other clothes having been neatly folded and placed on top of the hamper. She was doing the same breathing exercises that she did before every competition, only they didn't seem to be helping.

"Are you ready yet?" Quinn's voice called out from the other room.

Rachel took one last look in the mirror. It looked like she was really going to do this. "Coming," she said before making her very slow descent into the next room.

"About time," Quinn said, setting down the magazine that she had been reading.

Rachel didn't respond; she was embarrassed that Quinn could see her bare chest, not even Finn had gotten to do that.

"Why haven't you taken your boxers off?" Quinn asked, her eyes roaming up and down Rachel's mostly naked body.

"Can I leave them on?" she asked, not wanting Quinn to see that part of her. "I can just use the little hole thing."

"Take them off," Quinn demanded before getting an evil smile. "Unless you want me to do it for you."

"Alright," Rachel sighed, admitting defeat as she took hold of the elastic and slowly pulled the material down her smooth legs.

After what seemed like an eternity, the garment finally hit the floor and she stepped out of it. She turned her body away and put her hands over her crotch, feeling very exposed.

"Come on, let me see," Quinn urged.

"You'll laugh," she moaned, not wanting to be humiliated even more than she was now.

"No I won't," Quinn groaned impatiently.

Figuring that she couldn't keep this up forever, she closed her eyes and slowly moved her hands away. This was the first time that anyone other than her fathers or her doctor was seeing her naked, and it felt degrading. She didn't know how those feminists who walked around topless could bear it, no pun intended.

She expected to hear Quinn laughing or at least snickering, yet she didn't hear anything. Confused, she opened her eyes to see that Quinn was eyeing her as if she had just grown a second head. Well, technically...ugh, that sounded like one of Puck's jokes. She made herself a mental note to stop hanging out with him outside of rehearsal.

"Not much there, is there?" Quinn finally said, breaking the cloud of silence.

Rachel's face instantly turned red. That was not what she wanted to hear. "I'm average, I think," she defended, feeling rather upset that Quinn thought that she was lacking in that department.

"I take it you are a grower," Quinn suggested while grinning darkly.

"Yes!" she responded firmly. "I think I am around five and a half inches, give or take." She really hoped Quinn wasn't a size queen; she couldn't take another kick to her fragile ego.

"Whatever, guess I should undress as well," Quinn said as she rose up and undid the tie on her robe.

Before Rachel could even blink, the robe was lying on the floor leaving Quinn Fabray in nothing but a light coating of moisturizer that seemed to glisten off her perfect skin. The sight made Little Rachel instantly perk up.

"Happy to see me?" Quinn smirked as she stood there in all her naked glory.

"Uh," Rachel struggled to think, feeling embarrassed that she got aroused by Quinn's long smooth legs, lightly muscled stomach, and perky Bs. The thought of how she was going to get erect did cross her mind earlier. It did not look like that is going to be a problem now.

Quinn said nothing as she sat down on the bed likely indicating that she was ready to get the show on the road.

Rachel continued to stand there, not making any type of movement while simultaneously wondering why Quinn's brown landing strip didn't match her golden locks of hair.

Quinn seemed to take notice that Rachel wasn't starting things. "What's the matter, embarrassed that you are _average_?" she taunted, putting great emphasis on the word average. "Puckerman on the other hand, let's just say I was very sore the next day."

"Not exactly the best thing to say to someone before they perform," Rachel pointed out, feeling emasculated at being compared to the ex. She suddenly felt like going to a dealership and buying a full size pickup.

"Can we just get started?" Quinn asked impatiently, tapping her foot a few times for effect.

"I'm not exactly ready," Rachel chuckled nervously while pointing to her penis that had yet to reach it's full length.

"You need my help?" Quinn asked as she reached towards it.

"No, I got it," Rachel assured as she ran her hands over her member, trying her best to get it up. It was very difficult since she hadn't had much practice.

"Let me," Quinn groaned impatiently as she reached out and knocked her hand away before proceeding to manhandle it as if it were a joystick.

Rachel squirmed against her rough and surprisingly strong hands. Amazing that a woman that looked so delicate could be so rough. It was also slightly ironic that the woman that was practically ripping her dick off used to call her Man Hands. Finally, Rachel couldn't handle it anymore. "Not so rough."

Quinn let out an annoyed groan, then resumed, this time being gentler. "This isn't working," she complained as she continued to move the shaft up and down, having little effect on it.

Rachel had an idea but was too embarrassed to say it. Then again, she really didn't want to stand here all night. "Well," she chuckled nervously as she rubbed the back of her head, "there is a way you could do it faster."

Quinn looked up giving her a stare that would frighten Medusa. "You men are all like," she griped, "but I don't want to be here all night."

Before Rachel could even blink, Ms. Quinn Fabray, former head cheerleader, turned punk-wannabe, turned nice girl, had her mouth wrapped around Little Rachel and quickly went to work.

Never in a trillion years would she ever believe that she was getting a blow job from Quinn Fabray, the prettiest, coolest, most sought after girl in the whole school.

It was beyond amazing how good she was with her mouth, much better than she was with her hands. Rachel found her knees buckling as Quinn used her tongue to go over the sides before attacking the head, her tongue lightly grazing the tip.

How was it that a girl that used to be president of a celibacy club could suck dick like an amateur porn star? Not that Rachel ever watched porn or anything...

Then Quinn started deep throating. Rachel omitted a high pitched moan that made Quinn look up.

There was just something about seeing the woman look right up at her with her lips wrapped around the very sensitive organ in the most vulnerable and sexy position a woman could be in. It was too much for Rachel to handle. She felt her body tense and in an instant she had released, feeling a strong sensation in her lower pelvic area as she did.

Blinking twice, Rachel came back down to Earth. Reluctantly, she looked down to see that Quinn hadn't made any type of movement.

Already going soft, Rachel continued to stand there, wondering how long Quinn was going to keep this position. "Uh, Quinn?"

Quinn blinked, likely coming to the realization that she had a mouthful of Rachel Juniors, and very slowly pulled her lips off the now limp organ, a few drops of semen falling to the floor as she did.

"Sorry," Rachel said once Quinn had pulled away. She wondered why Quinn didn't respond, then remembered that Quinn still had her load in her mouth. "You want me to get you something to spit in?"

Still looking annoyed, Quinn took a deep breath and swallowed all her potential children in one gulp.

Little Rachel twitched at that sight. Now she knew why guys were so obsessed with it; it was beyond hot.

"Well," Quinn said, her voice unreadable.

Rachel found that she couldn't look Quinn in the eye, instead choosing to look down at her feet. Wow, that was some pedicure that Quinn had. She would have to ask her where she got it later.

Looking back up, she saw that Quinn had an unreadable expression on her face. No doubt she was angry. It could be due to the fact that she had just been forced to swallow possibly millions of potentials babies, the fact that their first time together hadn't even lasted one minute, or the fact that she likely got no pleasure from their first sexual experience. Or possibly all of these things.

"How long do you need before you can do it again?" Quinn spoke up, snapping Rachel out of her daze.

"I don't know, a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes," she shrugged apologetically, still feeling embarrassed at ejaculating so soon.

Quinn let out a very loud groan before picking up the magazine she had been reading, revealed to be Cosmo, and rolling over to the left side of the bed.

Rachel sighed and sat down as well, though she couldn't help but glance at the cover which boasted a very interesting header, '15 Ways to Please your Man using only your Mouth.' She really hoped that Quinn read that article.

With nothing to do and having a feeling that the woman lying next to her wasn't in the mood for conversation, Rachel picked up her phone, which she was smart enough to leave out, off the nightstand and acted as if she was engrossed in it.

She really wished that she could talk to Kurt or Mercedes right now; she might even be willing to settle for Finn.

She also felt really uncomfortable lying here in the nude, next to another nude woman. She wished that Quinn would at least put her robe back on, not that she didn't like looking at Quinn's privates; they were quite lovely.

* * *

Rachel didn't know how long they had been lying there; she had been entertaining herself by making corrections to the wikipedia pages of famous Broadway musicals that Barbra Streisand had appeared in when Quinn suddenly closed her magazine and rose up.

"You think you are ready?"

"Uh, maybe. We can try," she offered, the blood suddenly rushing to her face.

And try Quinn did. She tried her hands, her mouth, even rubbing the limp member between her breasts but no matter what she did the little thing was being stubborn and refused to get up. Almost as if it was a reflection of the owner.

"Wow, stubborn and refusing to cooperate," Quinn snickered after her fifth blow job failed to make her grow even an inch.

"Yeah," Rachel responded lamely. She was glad that Quinn was able to find humor in the fact that she was as limp as Kurt would be at a Spice Girls concert.

When Quinn didn't respond she spoke up. "I'm really sorry. I guess I should have masturbated earlier in the evening or something."

"Whatever, I guess we will try again in the morning," Quinn sighed as she rose up and headed toward the bathroom.

"Morning?" Rachel questioned, wondering when she had agreed to spend the night. Not that she had really agreed to any of this.

"Yeah, help yourself to a toothbrush. My mom was dating a dentist, I got about two hundred of them," Quinn shrugged as she walked out of the room, not even bothering to cover up her indecency.

Rachel figured that she could sneak out, but Quinn would come after her. Plus, they had already done the deed, sort-of. And she would never admit it to anyone, for obvious reasons, but Quinn sucking her dick was the best experience she ever had. Sure it had only lasted 47 seconds, but those were the best 47 seconds of her life.

As much as she didn't want to admit it, she was actually looking forward to them doing it again. Now if only the morning would hurry and get here.


	3. Practice Makes Not That Much Difference

Rachel slammed her locker door with far more force than needed. But it could not be helped. Today had a been a day straight out of hell.

It had started as soon as she entered the double doors of McKinkley. One of the football players, being the generous and kindhearted person he was, decided to share his sour cherry slushie with her. And he did so by dumping it over her head while some other members of the team cheered him on.

And it only got worse, come lunch time, as some of the Cheerios decided to fill her training bra with macaroni and cheese. Which, in itself, wouldn't have been so bad had it not been for the fact that she was still wearing it while the treason was being done.

That was beyond wrong. Not only was it cruel and a waste, but she had just gone full vegan and did not want her still, hopefully, growing chest to be exposed to the chemicals that was in the cheese like substance that the McKinley High cafeteria staff used.

Now as she picked up her backpack off the ground, she started silently praying that the second half of this loathsome day went by quickly. She was eager to go home and make some more videos to post on Myspace. She was averaging almost three views a week—an all time personal best.

She had been walking while simultaneously wondering whether to do a cover of Colbie Caillat's _Realize _or Natasha Bedingfield's _Pocketful of Sunshine _when she ran smack into a brick wall that was in the middle of the hallway for some reason.

Actually, after checking to make sure that her nose wasn't broken, since it did stick out a bit farther than a regular nose, no matter how much she wanted to deny that fact, she saw that it was not a brick wall that she had ran into. It was something much better—Finn Hudson!

She had only seen him a few times—mostly in the lunch room, inhaling trays of food like he was on Death Row and it was his last meal. But he was easy to miss in a crowd. Or used to be. Now it would be near impossible to miss him, seeing as he had a growth spurt over the summer. Off the top of her head, Rachel figured that he was at least a whole foot taller than her.

She had also heard that he was going out for quarterback next year. That meant he would probably start lifting weights and start getting all muscular like the guys in the Men's Health magazines that her fathers subscribed to. Just imagine if he was her boyfriend—no one, male or female, would ever pick on her again.

Though she was counting her chickens a little early. She had to actually start a conversation before she could plan their wedding.

"Hey, Finn," she chuckled, trying to keep her nervousness from showing. With all the excitement, it made her glad that she remembered to tape Little Rachel down this morning.

It seemed to take him a few moments to register that she was speaking to him and not just in his direction, even in spite of the fact that she had just smacked into his soft midsection.

"Oh, hey..uh...Ramona?" He had to look down when he spoke as the height difference really showed close up. Not that that was a problem. Rachel was more than willing to wear stilettos in place of her more comfortable sneakers and dress shoes.

"It's Rachel, but you can call me Ramona if you like." She really didn't care what he called her, just as long as he kept speaking and didn't walk away.

"Okay, hey..uh..did you do your algebra homework last night?"

"Of course, I got to keep up my average or my dads won't let me perform at the Spring Formal."

"Can I compare it to mine. I want to see if I got question five right."

"Sure!" She quickly dug into her well organized bag and pulled out her algebra binder, and after turning to the homework section, she took it out and handed it to him.

He wasted no time in taking out his own paper, a very dirty and crumbled up one, and start writing with a chewed up old pencil that he seemed to produce from thin air. Though from the way that he kept looking from his paper to hers, it didn't appear like he was comparing. In fact, he looked more like he was copying.

"You aren't by any chance cheating are you?"

"Of course not," he said, looking up for a moment. "Do you have to show how you got the answer?"

Rachel was about to give him one of her patented "Hard Work is it's Own Reward" lectures when she spotted something that made her mind go blank. Walking this way was Quinn Fabray. Only a freshman and already she had her own posse of followers and would likely be running this school by next year.

Sensing her impending doom, as Quinn was the one that lead the macaroni and cheese attack earlier, Rachel snatched her homework out of Finn's massive hands and attempted to hightail it out of there, fearing that the Cheerios had plans that involved her and the uneaten baked beans from lunch.

"Hey Frodo, aren't you a little far away from Hogwarts?"

Rachel was forced to turn around to see who gave that terrible insult. The source turned out to be Santana Lopez- better known as Quinn's right hand bitch. Rachel really wanted to tell her that Frodo was from Lord of the Rings and Hogwarts was from Harry Potter but relented. No need to get nerd added to the already long list of cruel nicknames that she had acquired since the start of the school year.

Rachel then saw Quinn push her way through and wrap her arms around Finn's waist—an act that Finn seemed indifferent to. She then turned in Rachel's direction.

"Hey, Berry, it's a little warm today, do you think you could shade us with you nose?" The second that she said it her posse started laughing as if it the most hilarious joke ever spoken.

"I don't get it?" Finn stuttered.

Rachel wanted to counter with her own witty retort but could not think of anything. It was hard when you were dealing with a girl that had perfect hair and skin, designer clothes and was on the Cheerios. Hell, being a Freshman Cheerio meant that you were already higher on the social scale than an average Senior.

Nothing was said for almost a minute. Rachel suspected that the others, Quinn especially, was waiting for a retort so they could keep up the Battle of the Insults: Hallway Edition. When Rachel never responded, Quinns spoke again.

"Let's go, this place reeks of loserness and Dollar General clothing and apparel." She started walking away, forcibly dragging Finn with her as she did.

"Bye, uh...Rebecca," he called out before disappearing down the long hallway.

"Oh yeah," Rachel said when she was sure that they could not see or hear her. She was way too much of a wuss to say it to any of their faces, even though she really wanted to. At the very least, she wanted to inform Quinn that she got her clothes at T.J. Max. But that moment was lost. Sure there would likely be many more, but no matter what she told herself, she knew that the result would always be the same.

"You actually thought you could get a guy like Finn Hudson," a unfamiliar voice that sounded like it was close by said, scarring the shit out of her, though not literally, thank god.

Once her heart stopped racing, she turned to find the source. It was pretty easy as the person, male, was the only one in the whole vicinity. She took a moment to look him over: medium height—around the area of 5'7, rather lanky with slightly broad shoulders but very little in the way of muscle tone, brown hair that could just be blonde and a lot dirt and clad in worn out jeans and a Rolling Stones t-shirt that was more holes than shirt. If he had a large coat and was carrying a cheap bottle of whiskey he would look just like the homeless men that hung out in the park where she sometimes went jogging when she needed to clear her head.

But what really caught her attention was what was in his hand—an Ultra Quench; an upgrade you could get if you were a member of the Frequent Thirst Club—which many of the bullies at this school were. Knowing what was coming, she braced herself for the forty-four ounces of ice and high fructose corn syrup.

"I am not going to dump this on you," he said as if reading her mind, though she didn't let her guard down, having made that mistake in the past. "I am serious," he went on. "I paid a dollar eighty-nine for this, I am drinking it." He then demonstrated by taking a large and very loud drink through his straw, making a lot of noise as he slurped.

When it appeared that he was telling the truth, she regained her composure.

"Oh sorry, force of habit." She had already dealt with this three times this week; that wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for that fact that it was only Tuesday afternoon. "So, uh..who are you?"

"Marcus Fernandez." He stuck out his free hand, appearing to want her to shake it as if they had just completed a business transaction.

Rachel was about to reciprocate; that was until she saw that it was covered in dirt. And she doubted that it was from planting flowers.

"Hi," she said, waving awkwardly until he put his hand back down. "Marcus, why haven't I seen you around? You..uh..seem like the kind of guy that would stand out." She did not mean that as an insult, even though it likely came out as one.

"I have been in juvie the last three months. Just got out two days ago," he responded casually, before proceeding to take another drink from his oversized cup. "Mhh, blue raspberry with a hint of cherry."

Rachel hated to admit it, a lot, but she was slightly impressed with a guy who was so casual about the whole ordeal. His appearance may scream trouble, along with "I don't bathe often", but there was something about a guy with a treacherous past that she found alluring. "What were you in for?"

"I was arrested for Grand Theft Auto," he declared, standing proudly as if he had just won the Noble Prize.

"Really?" She could feel Little Rachel start to perk up, even through the many layers of tape, since you could never be too careful.

"Yep. I stole a copy of Grand Theft Auto from K-Mart."

Talk about a boner killer. Little Rachel thought so to and instantly went back down.

"Well, it's been nice talking to you," she said as she prepared her exit. It was the farthest thing from the truth, but she really wanted to get out of there. And the sooner the better.

"Wait," he said, suddenly getting closer, and from this distance Rachel found that he smelled worse than he looked. "I was wondering if you were doing anything this Saturday."

Was she, Rachel Barbra Berry, getting asked out on a date? She honestly didn't know, since it had never happened. Not unless you counted the time that the creepy guy from temple, Jacob or something, asked her to accompany him to his Bar Mitzvah.

"Uhh, I think that I am...feeding the homeless...cats that night," she struggled to say. Lying had never been her strong suit, much less when it was on the spot.

He didn't appear to believe her either.

"I thought girls liked bad boys?"

"I like guys that are bad on the outside but good on the inside. You are bad on the outside and worse on the inside."

Marcus did not respond, just did a lot of blinking. He was either upset by her response or some of his dirt got into his eyes. Either was plausible.

"I don't give up so easily," he finally said.

His words sent a chill through her body, especially in a certain location. It felt like—

"Huh?" Rachel said, opening her eyes. Once they were adjusted to the light, she took in her surroundings. Something was off. Where was her _Yentl _poster; why was her favorite teddy bear not by her side; and most importantly, how come was she devoid of clothing?

It didn't take long for her to get an answer to one of those questions. There was that incredible sensation again. Raising her upper body a bit, she looked down to see Quinn's head positioned between her legs and her mouth wrapped around Little Rachel.

Her stirring seemed to notify Quinn, who pulled away, making a loud plop as she did.

"About time you woke up. My jaw was getting tired."

Rachel was about to respond when Quinn resumed what she was doing, causing Rachel to let out an inaudible mixture of grunting and moaning, groanting if you will. Someone should notify Folgers that they were wrong—this was the best part of waking up.

Quinn continued to do what she did, then started sliding her tongue up the shaft, stopping to suck lightly on the head, and even going as far as to grace over the urethra.

"I think you are ready," she said after a final lick up the length. She pulled away and rose up so that she was on her knees.

"Oh, right," Rachel agreed, remembering that Quinn didn't invite, or more accurately force, her over here for a dick sucking session, despite last night's rehearsal ending up one, entirely thanks to Rachel's quick draw.

There was some awkward shuffling, especially on Rachel's part, but they eventually situated so that Quinn was lying and she was up right. Now it looked like they could get down to business.

"I already got the lube out," Quinn said, pointing to a small blue bottle sitting on the nightstand by the bed.

"Okay," Rachel nodded, managing, with a bit of difficulty, to reach over and pick it up. "So...uh?"

Quinn did not respond, vocally anyway, instead she spread her legs wide, giving Rachel a perfect view of her beautiful womanhood.

This was where things got interesting. It wasn't like Rachel was a stranger to her own lady parts; she often touched them to remind herself that she was of the female nature. Though touching another female's would most certainly be new territory.

She did her best to not think about that as she popped the cap and put a small amount on her fingers, taking notice of how slippery it was. _Here I go_, she thought, as she ran the oily mixture over Quinn's opening, causing the owner of said opening to let off a low moan. It made Rachel wonder if it was an involuntary reflex. Or possibly—

"Okay, I am lubed enough!" Quinn groaned impatiently.

That snapped Rachel back. She took hold of her mostly erect penis with her slippery hand. She could already start to feel herself go soft and knew she had to get it to its destination, as Quinn would likely bitch and moan if she had to get her hard again.

It made her wonder if she was the only one who had this problem. She had read many a romance novel were the guy, or guys, was "hard as a rock". Did the women, or possibly men, that wrote those books fuck a lot of guys with rock hard penises?

Rachel found that amusing. She knew that writers often did research for their material, but how would you go about researching that? Maybe craigslist? Would the ad look something like:

_Looking for a man with a rock-hard penis for research for my upcoming novel. There will be lots of hands on experimenting so be able to keep it up for a long time. Preferably tall, tan, muscular, with long flowing hair, just like on the cover of every romance novel ever written._

Maybe that's why all those trashy romance novels there sat in long rows at Barnes and Noble, and under her bed. existed. They were just so the women, and possibly men, who wrote them had an excuse to fuck men and pass it off as research. Now if only she could figure out why Nicholas Sparks keeps getting published.

"Uh, Berry, did you get lost on your way down or something?" Quinn called out, snapping her out of her daze.

"Oh yeah," Rachel said, bringing herself back to the present. She had a mission to do. And she was going to do it...eventually.

A few more moments of doing nothing went by before Quinn spoke again, calling out, "Do you need me to draw you a map?"

"No!" Rachel assured, taking a shot in the dark as she gripped her mostly erect member and attempted to insert it with no success.

"You are aiming too high. God, you are hopeless!"

Rachel rolled her eyes. Did Quinn actually expect her to be an expert on pleasuring woman? Even if she was vocal about her little mutation, it's not like she would have other woman lined up to get fucked by her.

"Excuse me, I am not exactly well versed when it comes to fornicating with women!" Rachel exclaimed, then silently added. "It has been awhile since someone forced me to impregnate them against my will."

Instead of a vocal retort, Quinn reached down and pulled her flower apart, giving Rachel a perfect view of her moist, pink walls.

"There, since you can't find it without a GPS."

"Oh," Rachel chuckled, seeing that she had been way off. Taking careful aim, she guided her semi-erect member in until she heard a slight squishing sound. Oh god! She was inside Quinn Fabray! How many people could say they have had this honor? Well, Noah, obviously. But it was very doubtful in Finn or Sam's case. That made her one of the few...the proud. Now if she only knew what to do next.

"Umm, Quinn?"

Thankfully, Quinn picked up on her problem and said, "Just move back and forth. It's like dancing with more emphasis on grinding and shimmying."

Interesting... Now to see if Quinn was correct.

Rachel did as told, hitting a few rough patches in the process. The first time she moved too quickly and ended up pulling out, much to Quinn's annoyance. She then tried again, this time going slower, far slower. So much, in fact, that Quinn stopped to question if she had put it back in.

Then, after a few more failed attempts, Rachel finally found the middle ground and started pumping in and out at a nice reasonable pace.

So, this was sex. Rachel hated to think this, but it seemed a bit overrated. Not that it didn't feel nice, but it sure as hell wasn't the mind blowing experience that the media, especially teen dramas and rap videos, made it out to be.

She shook away those thoughts as she continued at it, having lowered herself so that she was just above Quinn's face, their lips mere inches apart. And from this angle she could see how flushed Quinn's face was. It appeared that one of them was enjoying this.

Using it as incentive, Rachel sped up the pace a bit. The moans quickly became more frequent. Then, just as Rachel had started to go in deep, she found Quinn cupping her perfectly round butt cheeks. This proved to be the worst possible thing to do; Rachel was just too surprised. Sometime mid-release, she tried, with the best of her ability, to hold back, but it was like trying to plug a hole in the Hoover Dam with a piece of chewed gum. And to make matters worse, Rachel had been face to face with Quinn the entire time the ordeal was happening, causing her to get a very close up view of Quinn's pissed off scowl.

"Well," Quinn finally said, the anger in her voice evident. "I guess you can pull out now."

"Okay," Rachel agreed, pulling out very slowly. She took notice that her penis now had a coating of Quinn Fabray juice on it. Even though she was embarrassed at finishing so soon, again, she could not help but feel a bit of pride in knowing that Quinn had been aroused at one point during this escapade.

"At least it made it to it's destination this time," Quinn said with a shrug as she rose out of the bed.

"Yeah," Rachel said, holding her head down, knowing fully well that Quinn was just putting on a act. "I am really, really sorry."

"Save it, this is just to get me knocked up. It's not like I had you over for a booty call," Quinn stated as she headed into the bathroom. "Just grab something out of my closet."

When Rachel heard the sound of running water, she started on cleaning herself up. She hoped that Quinn would let her take a shower as well. It would suck to be forced to walk around the rest of the day smelling like Quinn Fabray, even if it was a rather enticing scent.

And there was also the thing that she didn't want to think about—the fact that this was likely the last encounter she would ever have with Quinn. She should be happy about that fact, but she could only feel anguish in knowing that it was back to her vibrator and the cheap romance novels whose secret she now knew.

* * *

It had been two days since the encounter. Rachel, in multi-tasking mode, had been alternating between working on her campaign for president and browsing between her fifty favorite songs that could be potential NYADA audition material when her phone started buzzing.

She was hoping that it was Kurt wanting to get lattes and say bygones to everything that had happened, but no such luck.

_My house-sunday-7, _the screen blared.

She didn't recognize the number, but it didn't take Michael Westen to figure out who it was from.

So, in spite of her two pathetic performances, Quinn still wanted her seed for reproductive purposes. Rachel didn't know how she felt about that. But she did know that there was something that would have to be done.

* * *

_Ding Dong_

Rachel rushed to the door, and after checking the peephole, let her guest in.

"So what is this big glee emergency?" Quinn asked, shoving her way past Rachel.

"Uh, I may have lied," Rachel admitted, shutting and locking the door before turning to face her guest.

"So why the hell did you call me over?"

"It's uh...about the you know..what," Rachel said nervously, finding that her words were not flowing so smoothly.

"If you are trying to worm your way out don't forget that I can—"

"No, it's not that," Rachel interrupted. "I was just wanting to um...well you saw what happened last time and I guess I need some practice with..." Seeing that she could not form a coherent sentence, she picked up her glass of filtered water and took a long drink, hoping that could buy her a minute or so.

"You want me to jerk you off?" Quinn said, just as Rachel had been downing her water, making her nearly choke as a result.

After a large coughing fit, one were Quinn did not make any effort to help, Rachel calmed down enough to speak.

"Well, kinda...sorta..yes?" Right after saying/asking, she grabbed Leroy's favorite vase, knowing that Quinn could use it as a weapon.

"Get on the couch," Quinn ordered, using a commanding tone not unlike a Marine Corp. Drill Sargent.

Setting the vase back down, Rachel obeyed. And when she saw Quinn approach her reflexes kicked in and she snatched up the coach cushion to use a makeshift shield, anticipating that she was about to receive some swift jabs. She just hoped that Quinn didn't aim for the throat; Sectionals was just around the corner, after all.

"Arms up!"

Rachel looked up from her cowering position. Had she misheard that, or did Quinn really just say what she thought? It looked like there was only one way to find out. Doing as told, she stuck her arms up as high as they could go, while silently praying that Quinn didn't take advantage of her vulnerability and land a few cheap shots on her face that bruised like a peach.

Not that Quinn hit her face or any part of her. Instead she took hold of Rachel's oversized kitten t-shirt by the hem and started pulling it upwards. Rachel was confused, though she didn't speak or make any movement, even after the fabric was pulled up so far up that her vision was cut off. And she continued to remain sentient when she felt her shirt being yanked off in a quick, painful motion, leaving her sitting there with her purple push-up exposed.

Rachel tried to look anywhere but at the person who was stripping her, of both clothes and dignity, but found herself doing so anyway. Quinn was just standing there, holding her shirt while sporting a grin that could be described as amused. And she was looking right at Rachel's bra, making Rachel wonder if Quinn was laughing at the color or the fact that it was designed to give the illusion that women like her were bustier than they really were. Though, given the fact Quinn now knew the shape and size of her breasts, it was most likely the latter.

Rachel suddenly felt a surge of anger course through her. Some nerve that Quinn had; it wasn't like she was sporting double Ds either. And Rachel might have said something, had she not been distracted by Quinn reaching back and unhooking her.

"There you go," Quinn said, as she pulled away, knocking one of Rachel's straps off her shoulder as she did.

Feeling her anger subside, Rachel removed it the rest of the way and set it down on the floor near her feet. Then, just to keep Quinn from getting the satisfaction of doing it, she pulled her shorts down to her ankles and let them fall next to her bra.

Sitting mostly upright in just her lacy black panties that she had gone back to wearing, Rachel gave Quinn an 'up yours' smirk, her anger having converted itself to pure adrenaline that eclipsed her earlier fear. And the dismayed look she received from Quinn as a result made whatever beatings she was likely about to receive worth it.

Not that Quinn reciprocated in that fashion. Or at all. She just stood there, looking agitated at being one uped. And Rachel was positive that the fact that it was her that did it added fuel to the fire as well.

"So...you just going to stand there or what?" Rachel spoke up when it became apparent that, unless there was an earthquake, Quinn was not about to make motion any time soon.

That seemed to get a rise out of her, and after mumbling something inaudible, though Rachel could have sworn she heard the words you and fuck used, Quinn plopped down next to her, leaving no more than an inch of room between them before proceeding to stick her left hand in Rachel's panties, were she then wasted no time in finding and grasping her target.

Within seconds of her doing so, Rachel quickly summarized that it was a near identical repeat of the last time that Quinn had 'helped' her achieve erection. And when hands that were as rough as a lumberjacks were combined with a pissed off girl, you got one innocent standee that felt like her penis would either be stretched like taffy or snapped in half like a pretzel stick.

Rachel tried her best to wither the storm. But when assuring herself that the penis had no bones failed, which also made her stop and question why it was called a boner, she reluctantly spoke.

"Uh, Quinn, could you maybe..just slightly...ease up?"

That made Quinn look up from what she was doing, her face sporting a determined grimace that Rachel had only seen one other time, back during the boys vs. girls challenge in their first year of glee.

"You called me over here," she responded., acting as if it justified her mistreatment of Rachel's very sensitive privates.

"To help, not to tear me a new one. Maybe you could try something else?" Rachel hoped that Quinn got the hint. In actuality, she had been hoping for another encounter with Quinn's mouth, but she felt it was rude to just come right out and demand it. That kind of barbaric behavior was reserved for uncivilized males, not sophisticated women, who just happened to have male genitalia, such as herself.

Fortunately, Quinn seemed to pick up on her hints and removed her hand from Rachel's panties.

"You better not get used to this," she grunted as she pulled herself off the couch and got on her knees in a position that probably, not that Rachel would know or anything, resembled numerous porn stars, both male and female.

To say that Rachel was surprised that Quinn actually complied would be an understatement. Not that that stopped her from leaning back while she felt her panties being pulled down her legs. This was followed by taking the deepest breath that her powerful lungs would allow when she felt Quinn's breath strike her soft penis. An action that caused it to perk up a bit.

"She's waving," Rachel said, only to get a rather nasty glare as a result.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"Uh," Rachel struggled to respond, wishing that she had kept her mouth shut. Not that this was the first time that it had gotten her in trouble. And it certainly wouldn't be the last.

"Save the bad jokes for Puckerman."

That made Rachel slightly miffed, and she might have retaliated with her own remark about Quinn's sense of humor, or lack thereof, but the sudden feeling of one Quinn Fabray's tongue running over the head of her penis made all her tranquility vanish.

Feeling Quinn waste no time in getting to work, Rachel involuntarily fell back, letting a few moans escape in the process; an action that seemed to motivate Quinn further. And was it an accident, or did Quinn just run her fingers over her vagina?

Wait... There it was again. It was definitely no accident. Now Rachel was deep in to it, not unlike Quinn's mouth which was...you get the picture.

Wrapping her slender legs around either side of Quinn's neck, her panties hanging off her left ankle, she let herself get lost while Quinn's mouth and fingers worked their own unique brand of magic. For the first time in her almost eighteen year old life, she actually felt like having both sets of reproductive organs was a blessing and not a twisted punishment like her small chest or the fact that she was the height of the average sixth grader.

And then she felt Quinn's tongue run against that thing on the back of the head of the penis, which Rachel couldn't name, not that the name mattered. What did matter was the fact that it set her over and she found herself releasing. Though in a more controlled and orderly fashion compared to the first time that she reached release.

Closing her eyes, Rachel rode out the rest of her orgasm. The room had suddenly gone quiet, so much in fact, that you could hear the clock in the kitchen ticking. And she could have sworn that she heard something else; it almost sounded like the click that a phone made when it took a picture. But she pegged that off as her overactive imagination at play.

Later, by how much Rachel didn't know, she felt Quinn pull away. The feeling of her own juices rubbing against her now soft penis sent shivers that almost, but not quite, revitalized her sexual hunger.

"Looks like you are good," Quinn said, her voice lacking the muffled sound it would make if she had a mouthful of...you know what. That made Rachel a bit upset; she had been wanting to watch while Quinn swallowed her load. That was always enjoyable. But there was always next time.

* * *

Rachel walked into Quinn's room with a sense of poise and assurance that she only ever displayed when performing in the choir room or on stage. She just knew that this time she was going to leave Quinn feeling indulged and serene. So much in fact that Quinn would never laugh at her shortcoming, no pun intended, ever again.

"Someone seems confident," said Quinn, who had been standing at the doorway, and seemed to pick up on the vibes that Rachel was radiating.

"Oh, you know," Rachel shrugged nonchalantly. She placed her clothes, all neatly folded, down in a chair before sitting on the bed and spreading her legs to give Quinn access.

Quinn, already undressed, hunched down in her regular position and wasted no time in getting to work. And rather than her usual routine, she started deep throating right away, making Rachel kick her legs in a way that greatly resembled a toddler splashing in the kiddie pool.

In the midst of her kicking and moaning, she felt Quinn's hand go over her shaft—a hand that had been softened well with some type of moisturizer or aloe. In theory, Little Rachel was likely so used to crushing strongman esq. hands that it caught her by surprise. That was what Rachel needed to justify what happened immediately after.

Rachel did not want to open her eyes; the only thing that she wanted to do was see if she could beat Usain Bolt's 100 meter dash record. Alas, due to the fact that Quinn still had a good hold on her member, that for some odd reason had not gone soft, that was not an option.

But maybe it wasn't so bad. Perhaps her rather ample load had landed on Quinn's chest. That would be almost romantic—in the porn sense.

With only one way to find out, she slowly opened her eyes and peeked down, immediately wishing that she hadn't. Quinn's face was covered in both a scowl and so much white substance that she looked like she had either fell face first onto an open faced club sandwich or had just left a Kardashian party.

When Quinn finally let go of her penis and stood up, Rachel backed far away, just in case Quinn was concealing a weapon or two in one of her many books.

"For someone with no balls you sure produce a lot of cum," Quinn said as she snatched the box of tissues off her desk. "But do you think that you could try to get some of it in here?" She pointed down to her crotch were, ironically, semen from her face was dripping onto.

Rachel started racking her brain for answers. This time she did not possibly see how she could justify unloading her cargo so soon.

"Leave," Quinn went on. She was in the process of cleaning her face, though bits of tissue were getting stuck, giving her an uncanny resemblance to an ancient Egyptian mummy; not that Rachel was about to point this out.

"Okay," Rachel agreed. She snatched her clothes and ran out the door, figuring that if she stayed for even another second Quinn might make her leave naked. And that would be hard to explain to a cop.

But at least there was one positive; now she wouldn't miss the new _Simpsons_ tonight. **  
**

* * *

Was she really this desperate? And more importantly, why did she care so much? Quinn already made it clear that she just wanted her to put a bun in the oven, not give her mind blowing orgasms like in those poorly written 50 Shades books.

So why was she going to this extreme measure? Could it possibly be that she was actually enjoying the encounters, no matter how brief, with Quinn and didn't want to risk them ending?

Well, it wasn't that farfetched. Being realistic, it was doubtful that any guy would ever want to be with her if he knew about her condition. Hell, even a girl would most likely be repulsed. And even though Quinn had been shocked upon finding out, plus made some rather detrimental remarks about her lack of size, she had never reacted with disgust.

That had to be it. Why else would she be here, knocking on the door of someone who wasn't particularly fond of her?

Rachel could hear what sounded like a shouting match occurring on the other side, then everything went quiet. This was shortly followed by the sound of a chain being removed and the door opening part way.

"What do you want?" asked the person that Rachel couldn't see but could easily distinguish by their voice.

Rachel's doubts started coming back. She really did not want to be here. But where else was she going to go to for advice about pleasing women? Might as well turn to the person who was an expert.

"I need your help."


	4. Lebron Will Never Win a Ring

To say that he was surprised to see her, of all people, at his door would be an understatement. Finn had been so shocked that he nearly dropped the meatball sub that he was clutching with his free hand. How do you like that—Rachel was coming to him for help. She must really be desperate.

"What do you need help with?" he asked, doing his best to keep his composure intact, while repeatedly reminding himself to play it cool; he had to make her work for it.

"This is really hard for me to say," she said, looking at the ground while awkwardly moving her right foot back and forth—an act that she frequently did when nervous. "Us being former partners—in more than one account and all."

"Could you tell me while I am young?" he groaned impatiently. As much as he was enjoying seeing her here in this...amusing position, he did not want to stand out here all day, not when he was missing the game and his sub was getting cold.

"I really need help with something...and...I didn't know who else to turn to."

"We've established that."

"It's about...um..." Rachel's face seemed to turn three different shades of red as she struggled to speak—and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying the sight; it was not like Ms. Queen of the Divas to grovel—not unless a solo or part in a play she wanted was at stake.

"Out with it," he ordered, finding himself leaning in, almost on the verge of desperation, to hear what she wanted.

"I need you to tell me...what Santana's phone number is."

If they had been in a cartoon, this would have been the part were he would fall over in an exaggerated, comical sense while some funny keyboard sounds played. Alas, life was not a cartoon, though it did often feel like a mediocre teen dramedy written by a past his prime producer who had been scraping the bottom of the barrel for ideas.

"And you couldn't just go to her...why?"

"Lima Heights Adjacent scares me."

He rolled his eyes at her response. Those so called "ghetto thugs" were all a bunch of frauds and wannabes. Hell, half of the residents drove hybrids and shopped at Whole Foods. Still, she did come all this way; it'd be rude to just turn her away. Yeah, that was it.

"I'll see if I have it." He went back inside, not bothering to invite her in, mostly because Kurt was in there with Blaine, working on his campaign, and he didn't want to be the mediator of a brawl. Or as close as you could get to one when it involved a scrawny drama queen. And Rachel.

"Who's at the door?" Burt asked as he walked by while clutching a six pack of Bud Light and a fishing magazine—though Finn knew that he actually had a Playboy underneath.

"It's...uh..." he hesitated, noticing that Kurt and Blaine were at the kitchen table—well within hearing distance.

"It's Rachel," Kurt spoke up, not looking away from the poster that him and Blaine were currently working on.

"Yeah," Finn agreed. "She wants Santana's number for something."

"The traitor probably wants to join the Troubletones now that she knows that we have no chance in hell of winning," Kurt declared loudly, almost like he was wanting someone who was waiting outside to hear.

"Rachel would never Lebron James the New Directions," Blaine said as he dusted his hands, creating a cloud of blue and gold glitter.

"I have no idea who that is, but I bet she would do..whatever he did," Kurt stated, crossing his arms as he spoke.

"Betrayed the Cavaliers in 2010. Joined the Heat afterwords," Burt informed. "All of Ohio was devastated—besides you."

"But at least he will never win a ring," Blaine added.

"No, he won't," Burt agreed.

Finn groaned. He did not really care about the drama with Kurt and Rachel or whether or not Lebron would bring glory to the team that he back-stabbed Ohio for. And, judging by the brown eye that was peaking in though the curtain, Rachel was getting impatient at waiting; the girl never was one for sitting still.

"Does anyone have Santana's number; otherwise Rachel is going to be out there all afternoon."

"Kurt has it. Santana texts him every hour to remind him that Brittany is going to crush him into a pile of conditioner," Blaine informed as he held up a terrible, and not in anyway unidentifiable, drawing.

"And that is completely ridiculous," Kurt said. "I never use conditioner—it dries out the scalp."

"Fascinating," Finn responded, not attempting to hide his disinterest. He then snatched up Kurt's iPhone and found the most recent message from Santana; this was followed by going back outside to Rachel, who immediately fell back while acting like she hadn't been eavesdropping.

"I was just...admiring these lovely curtains," she said, her voice having grown high pitched; Rachel always was a terrible liar.

"Oh, well, here you go," he said, holding up the number for her to see, feeling mildly amused at her antics—he did sort-of miss it.

"Thanks," she responded with a small grin. She then wasted no time in putting the number in her own phone.

And as he watched her tiny little fingers eagerly work, memories of their time together started to come back; who knew—maybe it was fate?

"Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to—"

"Nice chatting with you. See you at rehearsal." She practically shoved Kurt's phone in his hand and rushed back to her Camry, moving far quicker than he did the time he was being chased by the 340 pound linebacker; he had never seen Rachel so eager to leave—especially from him.

Oh well, he thought as he went back inside. She would come back to him. She always did. And it wasn't like there was anyone else in the picture to give him a run for his money.

X—X—X—X—X

Santana shoved the last bite of her soft pretzel in her mouth and used her napkin to wipe the mustard from her chin while she again looked to Rachel, wondering why the fuck she was pulled down to the mall. Not that she wasn't enjoying the free shit that Rachel kept giving her; free shit is always nice. Still, Rachel hadn't said anything since they sat down at the food court...almost fifteen minutes ago. Santana hadn't even thought that it was possible for Rachel fucking Berry to be quiet for that length of time; it was like something straight out of Mythbusters.

"So, Frodo, did you just call me down here to watch me eat or somethin'?" She picked up her cup and took a loud drink of her soda, then shook the cup, hearing the giant mound of ice rattle. Damn greedy corporations; so not worth two bucks and thirty-nine cents. "Cause I got places to be."

"No..." Rachel replied, looking up from her untouched falafel sandwich, "...no, it's not that. It's...I...well...I need your help with a...um...matter...about...relationships." Rachel's head moved all over the place as she spoke—not acting at all like the overly confident, and highly annoying, diva that Santana knew and loathed.

"If you want me to help you win Finnocence back then you have wasted your time. I don't even know why you—"

"It isn't Finn," Rachel interrupted, then lowered her voice, a point that Santana found moot—as there wasn't another person within twenty feet of their table. "It's about...a...not boy."

_A not...what the fuck!_ Santana thought, it suddenly becoming clear. _Berry needs my help—with a woman! _

Now things were getting interesting.

"I didn't know anyone else to turn to," Rachel went on. "This is really hard to ask and all, but I know that you...like girls...and stuff."

And stuff? What the hell did Berry think that she was into?

"As much as I like seeing someone, even you, turning to the lesbian side, I am not inclined to help you with this problem." Rachel's face fell after that was said—it made Santana feel a twinge of guilt.

"Wh...wh...why not?"

Santana held up a clenched fist, knuckles facing outward, and stuck up a single finger. "One, we are in competing glee clubs." She held up a second finger. "Two, you are running against my girlfriend for president." She put up a third finger. "Three, and most importantly, I don't like you."

"Isn't there some kind of lesbian code of honor?"

"That's a good one," Santana said, rising out of her seat, leaving her trash for whomever worked here. "Well, this has been...interesting. We should _not _do it again." She started high tailing it out of there, and would have left without a second thought, had it not been for her catching sight of Rachel in the mirror at the nail polish kiosk. Rachel legitimately looked downtrodden at being denied her assistance, and Santana didn't know why, but she suddenly got the notion that she should at least find out what she needed help with.

"Alright," Santana said, having walked back to Rachel's seat. "Walk and talk. And don't skimp on the details." Rachel's face instantly perked upon her return; it made Santana uncomfortable. Later, she would have to kick some puppies to get rid of all this good karma.

X—X—X—X—X

"And remember, never take the pinky out of the equation," Santana called out from the other side of the door as she fired up Chrome. She had been giving Rachel advice, and monitoring her reactions, from every store they had went into, starting at Victoria's Secret, were she instructed Rachel to get several things (and a few for herself) and ending at the kinky sex shop, located in the secluded area of the mall, were she forced Rachel to get some..._bedroom aids, _despite Rachel's numerous protests. And now they were back at Rachel's house, so that Rachel could better examine the stuff that she bought.

And as Santana was about to log Rachel out of her computer, so that she could check her email, something occurred to her—she had the perfect opportunity to see everything that Rachel has ever searched for, providing that Rachel wasn't one of those paranoid freaks who thought that the government was monitoring their porn history and cleared it every time they finished rubbing one out.

But Santana quickly found out that it was not the case with Big Nose; the opposite, in fact. It didn't look like Rachel had ever cleared her search history. But that just meant all the more for snooping.

Santana first looked at the top two: _When will Les Miserables be in theatres?_ and _How to naturally increase your bust._

Santana stifled a yawn and continued down, hoping to find something juicy. After scrolling past some more pointless drivel, she found something that peaked her interest.

She read it again: _How to last longer in bed. _And if that hadn't been enough, just under it was: _Does __size really matter? _That left her confused. Sure, Rachel was short, and Santa frequently made fun of her for it, but she didn't know how that pertained to the bedroom.

But then she scrolled down even further and it all made sense. She had to reread it five times just to make sure that she wasn't going insane. There it was, in size twelve or so font:

_Can a girl with a penis impregnate another girl?_

Suffice to say, if you factored in the other two questions, it was blatantly obvious that Rachel was not the one being penetrated and, in fact, doing the penetrating. Which meant that Rachel Berry was in possession of a fucking cock!

Cha-ching! Hello, blackmail goldmine.

But she quickly realized that she needed solid evidence. Cheerio or not, no one would believe her—especially given their history and the fact that she had already attempted to spread some rumors about Rachel, namely that Rachel had a tail, as in the kind that wagged.

But how could she come up with actual-factual evidence? (Damn the Bernstein Bears for putting that in her head.)

Wait! Rachel was in the bathroom, right now, trying on the sexy outfits that she bought. Santana considered that maybe, just maybe, she could sneak a peak while Rachel was changing. And if she got a picture or two, all the better.

Being as quiet as possible, she got out of the chair and tip-toed across the floor, the floor occasionally making a squeaking sound as her sock covered feet went against it.

"Shit," she muttered to herself but continued on till she was just outside the door. Holding her breath, she let her arm drift forward until her hand was wrapped around the knob, while silently chuckling that this was the first time in a long while that she had wrapped her hand around a knob, and then turned the handle...and though the door rattled, it remained closed—this could only mean that it was locked.

Dammit, she thought, going back to the computer; it looked like Berry had thought ahead. Now she needed a new plan. She considered calling Quinn. They weren't exactly best buds at the moment, what with the rival glee clubs and all that shit, but she knew that Quinn would never pass on a chance to destroy Rachel. That dated back as far as Freshman year, during the days when her and Quinn were trying to climb the social ranks of McKinley (and not beneath stepping over one another to do so).

That was when it hit her. It was so obvious—to the point that she couldn't believe that she hadn't immediately thought of it.

She let her mind wander back to the unforgettable day, nearly three years ago.

xxx

"Hey, RuPaul, the drag show is that way," Quinn mocked as Rachel walked by the Cheerios picnic table, a paper bag lunch in her hand. Santana took notice that Rachel seemed to tense up right after Quinn uttered that; she did not know why—Quinn insulted Rachel all the time. Hell, this wasn't even Quinn's better material.

"That Berry is such a loser," Santana chimed in, wanting to be a part of this discussion. It was blatantly obvious that Quinn was the leader of their little gang, and Santana was content with being her number one lackey—for now.

"Yeah, and that's not all," said one of the Cheerios whose name Santana didn't know. "I heard from Emma who heard from Stacey who heard from Francine that Berry has a sausage between her legs."

"What?!" Santana and Quinn said at the same time.

"Yeah, word on the street is she went on a date with that guy that looks homeless; you know, the one that smells like a hippie and is always smoking those funny cigarettes."

"Those aren't cigarettes," Santana informed as she rose up. "I gotta go see a guy about somethin'." Walking past Quinn, who eyed her suspiciously, she quickly ran to where she knew he'd be; the stoners always met in one location—the wall behind the abandoned tool shed, just off school property.

This kind of gossip would really help her rank. It might even be enough to convince Coach Sylvester to give her the coveted Head Cheerio position, which would be open starting next year. But first she needed to check her source. Gossip was one thing, but she knew if she wanted facts that she would have to get it from the horse's mouth. And once she saw the familiar cloud of smoke looming in the air, she shimmied to the wall and stuck her head out slightly, putting all her spying abilities to work.

"I am telling you, I felt it," said a dirty looking male, clad in a pair of raggedy jeans and a sleeveless black muscle shirt that drew focus to his arms, which were covered in tattoos. He leaned part of his body against the wall and clutched a badly rolled up joint between his thumb and index finger. He appeared to be talking to, or at least in the direction of, two very uninterested listeners that Santana recognized from the football team. And though they didn't seem interested in his story, Santana took notice that they eyed his joint attentively.

"You were mistaken," said the first guy, a heavyset male, looking to be around fifteen or sixteen. A Letterman's jacket hung loosely from his broad shoulders.

"Yeah, probably just got cockblocked," agreed the other, this one dark skinned and also wearing a Letterman's jacket.

"Fuck you losers; I know what I felt."

"Yeah, I'm sure you do know what one feels like," said the dark skinned male. "Because you are a queer." That earned him a laugh and high five from the other.

That didn't bode well with the stoner, because he flipped them both the bird with the hand that wasn't clutching his joint, then walked away. Santana immediately used this to her advantage and followed after him. He eventually caught on and turned back around, eyeing her intently.

"Is there a reason you are following me?"

"What were you telling those two guys back there?" she asked, trying not to sound too eager. And if he told her to fuck off, she could always bend over and flash a little of her red Cheerio panties (that was how she got guys to buy her beer).

"I was just telling those assholes that that Rachel Berry chick is a bigger freak than I thought. She has a cock—like a dude!"

Santana eyed him carefully. He appeared to be telling the truth, but maybe he just got shut down. She knew that if she was a guy and couldn't score with Rachel Berry that she would make up shit, also.

She was about to ask him some more questions when she took another look at him, paying especially close attention to his odd mocha like skin; he looked almost like a dirtier (and uglier) version of Beyoncé.

"Wait!" she gasped, being hit with realization. "I know you; you are that grease monkey that overcharged my papi when he brought his Ferrari in to have the fuel filter replaced." She still remembered the look on her papi's face when he was presented with the bill and saw that he was charged six hundred and eight-three dollars in labor—almost six times what it should have been.

"Don't blame me, Tony takes care of all that shit. I just do my job," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "And seeing as it was a fucking Ferrari, I'm sure your papi could afford it."

Santana felt her blood boil. The smug asshole. Now she was convinced that he did strike out.

"At least I didn't get shot down by the biggest loser in school. Looks like you'll be dating your hand for the next four years."

"Why don't you back off, Chevron?!" Now he was right in her face.

"Chevron?"

"I heard you and those other cheerleaders' legs are open 24/7. Just like the gas station."

That was the wrong thing to say.

"Fuck you!" Santana lunged at him, aiming for his most delicate area with her knees. Though he proved to be a match and shoved her back, making her fall on her bottom, and she could feel something cold and slimy on the bottom of her panties (she prayed that it was mud).

"I injected myself with 40 milligrams of Tren this morning. You do not want to start something," he stated as he stood over her and looked down; it appeared that he was attempting to be menacing (and failing, thought Santana). "I'll go Lima Heights on your ass."

That made Santana bolt back up.

"You are from Lima Heights?" Now this was getting personal; no one threatened to go Lima Heights on her—she reserved that honor just for herself.

"Born and raised," he declared proudly, then smacked his filthy hand against his chest. "Marcus Fernandez: named because my mom gave birth to me in the women's dressing room of a Neiman Marcus."

"I didn't ask for your life story," she griped. "And you are way too white to be from Lima Heights." She took a better look at his skin, under the dirt and tattoos, she could tell that he wasn't of pure Latino origin; even half would be pushing it.

"And who made you the queen of who is and isn't from Lima Heights?"

"Because I am from Lima Heights Adjacent." She stood tall as she spoke—nothing like pride in your community.

"Lima Heights Adjacent," he said, snickering. "Those bunch of sweater-vest wearing, tennis playing, caviar sucking—"

"You best stop if you want to keep your gross yellow teeth in your mouth," she threatened, feeling a vein throb in her forehead. No one insulted LHA...and lived to tell about it.

"Why don't you go play with your dollies at your country club...poser."

Something inside Santana erupted. She had been called many hurtful names, usually pertaining to tacos or some other racist shit, but this went well beyond unacceptable. And she very well couldn't let this slip; not just for her, but for all the LHA residents: past, present and future.

"I'm going to fuck you up, Lima Heights Adjacent style," she declared as she swung at him, possessing the fierceness and intensity of a bum that just had his moldy sandwich stolen.

It was a short fight, and, in retrospect, Santana realized that fighting a guy who was taller and heavier than her did not weigh in her favor, but she fought on—all the way up till the end when a well placed haymaker pierced into her soft stomach and she went down—and stayed down. She could almost hear Michael Buffer declaring "Fight over" and "the loser by TKO—Santana Lopez."

"That's how we do it in Lima Heights...bitch." Well, she definitely heard that.

Santana couldn't see him—only stars—but she could feel him looming over her, as well as the odor of weed and gas station chili-dogs. Then some liquid hit her face, most likely saliva, meaning he just spit on her.

She continued to lie there, hoping that he would get bored and leave. Also, that oxygen would return to her respiratory system soon. But at least one thing was settled—he really was from Lima Heights; she knew because she had been observing the way he punched while they fought. He moved like a drunken blind mind trying to fight the air; truly the mark of a Lima Heights resident—no one there could throw a punch if their life depended on it.

xxx

As Santana came back to the present, she felt herself grow angry. She had repressed those memories, mostly because she did not like the fact that she lost that little tussle. But things were different now; she knew that she could use that bastard to her advantage.

And then she would kick his ass.

But, she thought as she Googled his name, formalities first; gotta track down the bastard—and to do that, she would have to find out which shady alley he was currently creeping around in.

X—X—X—X—X

By the time that Rachel had finished getting into the one piece corset that she bought—which was tight in all the wrong places— she discovered that Santana had up and vamoosed, without leaving a note or anything.

Well, Rachel thought as she started the tedious task of unlacing the evil contraption that she was confined in, at least she helped—though she could have done without the visual demonstration of cunnilingus on her favorite doll.

She had gotten down to the last three strings that binded the thing together, and had been in deep thought about how Victorian era woman did this everyday, when her phone buzzed from its location on the bed. Figuring it to be Santana texting her an apology, she waddled over and bent her knees to check.

_Get sum oysters; I read in a book it's good for sex._

What the fuck?!

Rachel figured that she was being crank texted, until she compared it to an earlier message and realized that it was Quinn's number. She hadn't spoken to Quinn, message or in person, since Sunday—which, of course, ended with Quinn getting an unwanted facial.

Rachel decided to respond; no need to make Quinn any angrier than she likely still was. Right after she finished getting out of this damn corset. And after lots of struggling and sucking in, she managed to do so—and once free, she immediately tossed the thing across the room, were it hit against her _Hello, Dolly! _poster and the slunk to the floor. Seeing the thing there, so helpless, gave her an odd sense of satisfaction. And then remembering Quinn, she stretched her muscles before she climbed on the bed and situated so that she was comfortable, doing her best to not think about the fact that she was texting Quinn...naked.

_I'm a vegan, and besides, that's for impotence. I can get it up..._

Rachel looked up, hardly believing that she was having this conversation, but continued.

..._I_ _just can't keep it up._

She hit send before she came to her senses. Had she waited, she likely would have not only not sent that message but deleted Quinn's and pretended that she never received it. She had mixed feelings about Quinn—especially pertaining to the way she treated her, but also didn't want their encounters to stop. The sex—though brief—was something that she realized she enjoyed. And the blowjobs—well that spoke for itself. And it wasn't like she could ask Finn or Jesse to suck her dick—not if she wanted a positive response, anyway.

While she thought about her very limited options when it came to dating, and even fewer when it came to sex, she got a response that read:

_Then masturbate. _

Short but to the point.

Rachel shuddered. Quinn just ordered her to masturbate—and here she was...in her birthday suit. It was almost like Quinn knew. And that was beyond creepy. But Rachel was never one to disobey a direct order from the person who was blackmailing her. She cupped little Rachel in her palm and went about trying to get herself hard. Though it proved difficult; Little Rachel just didn't feel like playing right now. Damn penis, soft when she wanted to get it up and thriving at inconvenient times—such as when she was performing a Madonna number and wearing leather pants.

Rachel also figured that Quinn got annoyed at her lack of response, because, in the midst of trying to get her penis to rise, she got another text that said:

_U doin it?_

Sighing at Quinn's impatience, she typed back:

_Yes, having some trouble. It'd probably go faster if I had visual stimulation._

She hit send without even stopping to think about what she just implied. Shit! Now Quinn would think that she wanted to sext or something. She quickly started typing up a follow up message, but her phone buzzed while she was halfway into writing it.

Terrified, she reluctantly opened it...and almost dropped her phone in shock when she saw the screen:

_alright, whattya want?_

Unbelieving, she took a moment to contemplate; did Quinn just agree to send her naked pics...of herself? Rachel waited another minute, mostly so she wouldn't sound so eager, then typed up:

_surprise me_.

It seemed painstakingly slow—to the point that Rachel was almost convinced that time had stopped for everyone but herself; that or Quinn was just messing with her and had no intention of sending naked pictures of her gorgeous body. Either way, it made her consider texting Quinn again, but she refrained.

And seconds before she was about to put her phone down and go back to trying on her clothes, her phone buzzed three times in rapid succession. Rachel found herself looking at three new picture messages—all from Quinn.

The first was an overheard shot of Quinn's naked upper-body. Her breasts were pressed together, and it looked like Quinn was either flexing or had done some weighted sit ups before she took the picture, because Rachel knew that her abs did not normally stick out like they did in the picture.

The second was a lower body shot were her legs were parted just enough to get a glimpse of the outlines of her vagina; similar to what was done in soft-core porn. And from the looks of if, someone just came from the waxing salon.

And the third was a close up of Quinn's pussy. Quinn somehow managed to hold her lips open and take the pic simultaneously. What quality work it was. It made Rachel's mouth water, as well as fantasize about what going down on Quinn would be like.

And as she thought about that, she could feel Little Rachel spring up, becoming almost completely erect; she had a hunch that her penis liked Quinn's pussy as much as she did—if not more.

Time to get to work, she thought, her hand wrapping around the shaft. She kept her gaze fixed on the pictures, using her free hand to cycle between the three. She especially liked viewing the third. Those lips. So moist...so alluring. Just thinking about those luscious walls made Rachel feel things—things that she hadn't felt since Finn.

She felt her pace rapid. Closing her eyes, she pictured Quinn right here...in the sixty-nine position. Quinn having her talented mouth on Little Rachel, while Rachel buried her head into Quinn's cunt and...

There was that intense feeling in her pelvic area, along with feeling something sticky on her hand.

It was over. And the time was only slightly better than the first time that Quinn got her hard.

How sad.

Once Rachel had removed her hand and opened her eyes, she looked up to see that she had made a mess; her stomach had a healthy coating of her own seed, as well as a few glops on her hand and one in her bush. And she hated to admit it, but Quinn was right, she did produce a lot of semen. It was rather odd, given her lack of testes. But she'd let science work that out; she was more concerned with cleaning herself up and finishing up her campaign fliers.

She grabbed a few tissues from her nightstand and wiped up as much as she could, taking notice that she'd likely have to rinse herself off. And after disposing of her tissues, she remembered that Quinn probably wanted to know that she was done, so she typed a quick: _Misson acomplishd_, not even bothering to check for spelling errors.

She waited for a reply, but one never came. Shrugging it off, she went to clean herself up better. She was at least glad that Quinn hadn't asked her to send anything back. Just imagine if Quinn—or anyone for that matter—got a hold of a picture of her...condition; the blackmail would be endless.

X—X—X—X—X

Marcus stood by Coach Tanaka as the man gave his required two minute speech. Marcus never listened and, looking at his teammates who were immersed in their phones and/or porn mags, neither did they. Being on the track team didn't get the honor—or more importantly women—that the football and basketball teams got, but they still got to call themselves jocks—whenever the real jocks weren't around.

"Marcus can handle things from here. I will be in my office...contemplating where my life went wrong," he said, having started walking away mid sentence. "If you need me—don't."

Marcus waited until the coach, which was a pretty generous term, was in his office and had the blinds closed. He knew, for a fact, that their coach spent the entire time drinking cheap beer and looking over his online dating profile. Not that Marcus minded; it meant that he got to run the team the way he saw fit.

"Alright guys, we got a big meet in three days; let's not waste any time," he declared as he looked from one member to the next. "Whose day was it to bring the weed?"

"Mine," said one of the guys whose name Marcus did not remember—or care to learn for that matter. The important thing was what he was holding: a plastic baggy with enough bud to last through two Ziggy Marley concerts.

"And I got the munchies," said Jeff, holding up an extra large bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Jeff was easy to remember—he always brought the chips, and never got any, because the others always ate them. But he was cool about it—probably because he was the smallest guy here.

"Then let's get this practice started," Marcus declared; he loved being the captain—and all the responsibilities that came with it.

Later, after joints had been rolled and two of the guys went out for a Taco Bell and soda run, Marcus sat down with his best friend, The Professor—named because with his solid D+ average, he was easily the smartest of the lot (that and Marcus could never remember his real name).

"You know," he said to the Professor as he made sure the tip was wet, "I saw online that Lebron made forty-five million dollars this year."

"Yeah, so?" Professor replied, not looking up from his magazine.

"It makes me wish that I had taken up basketball. Why didn't I?"

"You are a measly 5'10, some kind of weird white/Latino mixture and, that one time at the park, you shot one basket, missed and said it was boring and then went back to rolling a joint."

"But other than those things, do you think I'd have made it?"

Marcus never got to find out what the Professor's response would be (though he knew it would be yes) as the guys he sent out came back with the grub. And being team captain, he was, of course, entitled to first dibs. And he enforced his position by shoving the others aside—you never get between an experienced stoner and his munchies; not if you don't want a black eye, anyway. But Marcus was more than disappointed at what his lackeys brought back.

"What the fuck?" Marcus demanded, after having seen his soda selections and finding out that they had only gotten two liters. "Why didn't you get cans?"

"Two liters are cheaper," informed Eric, the scrawny blond lackey who always did as told. "More soda for the money."

"Dumbass, our lips will touch the same bottle. Goddammit, that is disgusting." Marcus found himself about to throw a fit—just as he always did when something went wrong, which was often.

One of the guys, possibly Jeff, spoke. "We take hits off the same joint. How is that any different?"

"I don't know—it just is," Marcus said, realizing that he didn't actually have a good explanation, and , rather than argue, he grabbed a two liter of Dr Pepper that he deemed—just mine. Though he got an even worse shock when he picked it up. "You got warm soda!"

"No place sells cold soda in two liters," Eric defended, then backed away as Marcus got in his face and raised his fist.

"You retards can't do anything right," Marcus groaned. He shoved past Eric and flopped down in his seat on the bleachers. "Now someone is going to have to buy some ice."

"You know, M, you seem to contribute almost nothing to these practices," Professor spoke up, making Marcus start to resent the fact that he wasn't as stupid as the rest.

"Fine," Marcus grunted as he fished his keys out of his pocket and tossed them at Eric, fully well having the intent to hit him. "Here, take my ride. There is enough loose change in there to get a bag of ice. And I got like ten cups in the backseat—but I would wash them...thoroughly." He had accumulated many cups, from many restaurants, at numerous points in time, and he never threw any of them away, having always figured that a situation like this would come up—and it did.

As Marcus watched Eric and the other guy go back out, he felt proud—he didn't know what these guys would do without him. He then wetted his joint once more for good measure and lit it up with his trusty lighter that he hid in his shoe (just in case there was ever another drug bust bust). One good hit later, he exhaled his smoke, making a few rings, and turned to the Professor.

"Remember when we went up against that school were the entire team had staph infection?"

"Vaguely, I was pretty drunk at the time."

"Is it strange that we still lost?"

"Not really," Professor responded as he turned the page and flipped his magazine sideways, showing off the centerfold who was standing in the snow wearing only boots, a white bikini bottom and snow hat.

Marcus was briefly distracted by the woman's (fake) double Ds, then remembered what he had been saying and asked, "Why do we suck so much?"

"Maybe because we spend all our time smoking pot instead of training," suggested Professor, just before he yawned and stretched his skinny arms over his head. "At our last meet, half the team gassed out from the warm up exercises."

Marcus exhaled the smoke he had been holding in; he prided himself on the fact that he could usually hold it in for at least a few seconds longer than the others.

"Interesting theory," he commended as he passed the joint while eyeing it intently; he always made sure that no one took more than two hits, "too bad there is no way to test it."

With nothing else to say, Marcus went back to his "training". He had just finished taking his fourth hit, after snatching the joint away from the bastard who tried to sneak an extra puff in, when Eric came running up the field, stopping about ten feet from the bleachers.

"Hey, Big M," Eric said, gasping heavily and making Marcus think that Eric should take up running—he heard it was good exercise. "Hot tamale coming this way."

Marcus looked past his friend (who looked like he was having a heart attack) to see if Eric was telling the truth or was just hallucinating; it wouldn't be the first time; Marcus could still remember the time that Eric spilled a bag of gummy bugs on himself and then thought he was being attacked by grape ants and green apple grasshoppers. But unlike that hilarious incident, there was, in fact, a girl—appearing to be Latina—walking up this way. And as Marcus managed to focus his blurred vision, he saw that it was a cheerleader.

"Did any of you guys score with one of the uhh...Apple Jacks? No, uh...Fruit Loops? Uhm, Post Shredded Wheat?" Marcus asked, trying to remember what they were called.

"Not me," Eric said, his face buried in the grass. "The football team said they'd kick my ass if I tried to score with their women."

"And the Cheerios think we are disgusting, anyway," Professor added.

Cheerios, Marcus thought, what a stupid name. Post Shredded Wheat was so much cooler (and better for the digestive system).

"Which one of you future Walmart shelf stockers is Marcus?" the cheerleader asked, having made her way over to them. It was much easier to get a glance at her up close; she was Latina: easily distinguished by her long raven locks and bronze skin.

"Not me," Professor spoke up. "And for the record, I was a straight A student before I met these..._people_."

"And you are welcome," one of the guys sitting at the bottom said. "Also, I'm Marcus."

"No, I'm Marcus," said another.

"I'm Marcus," said Eric, who was still lying in the grass.

"What are you potheads doing?" the cheerleader asked, her voice filled with disgust.

Marcus decided to speak up, having figured that she wasn't getting the reference.

"They have been wanting to pay tribute to that movie for years," Marcus informed, managing to climb down the bleachers, which, in his semi-stoned state, felt like climbing down Everest. Once he was at the bottom, he stuck his hand out to her. "Marcus something or other at your service."

"Asslicker," called out one of the guys.

"Oh yeah, Marcus As-...Wait!" Realizing that he had been punked, he pulled out his driver's license, which he could barely read (and the weed didn't help, either). "Oh, here it is, Fernandez."

"You can't remember your own name?" questioned the cheerleader, her brow raised.

"Can you remember _your _name?"

"Yes," she responded, without a moment of hesitation, then turned her head to the guys who were doing various idiotic things before looking back at Marcus. "Can we go someplace private?"

Marcus liked where this was going.

"Sure, follow me." He led her past the field to a secluded spot with a single giant oak, which most didn't know had a hollow center; the team, however, did and frequently used it to hide their alcohol and porn.

"So..." he started, after they had gotten comfortable and he had a chance to look her over (and he liked what he saw). "Why'd you want to see me?"

"You probably don't remember me, since you are a druggie who can't even remember his own fucking name, but we had a fight, years ago."

"You'll have to be more specific; I beat up a lot of people." He, of course, neglected to mention that they were always smaller and weaker than him, usually ranging in the ninety pound weakling category.

"Yeah, you didn't beat me up. You just got a lucky swing. But that's not what I want to talk about."

"Then what is it?"

"You went out with a Rachel Berry about three years ago, didn't you?"

Marcus found his stomach lurching and could feel his breakfast start to come back up. He knew it wasn't the weed—he could smoke twice this much, and eat two Double Whoppers, without getting sick. But the mention of Dick Girl could easily turn his stomach worse than going on a roller coaster after downing a huge plate of chili-nachos.

"Yeah, I know her. Tried to inform the public that she's a fucking...I don't even know what to call..._that_. I just avoid her and her freakness like it's Chlamydia—which I no longer have, in case you were wondering."

"What exactly makes her a freak?"

She seemed real interested now. Marcus hadn't felt like sharing, but now he was beginning to think that he may get lucky if he divulged this information, so he told her everything that happened, from the day they met to the night that he found out.

"Damn," she said, once he had finished. "So that's why Berry locked the dressing room door and screamed at me to get out when we were trying on lingerie." She seemed to drift off but just for a moment. She then said, "Do you think you can get me some proof of her...you know?"

Marcus laughed—and not because the weed was kicking in.

"I wouldn't go near that bitch for all the Heineken in China."

"It's all the tea in China."

"I hate tea."

"Anyway, do this for me and I will make it worth your while."

And so it began.

"Oh, and how will you do that?" He really wanted to hear this; cheerleaders were always awesome in bed—especially if they could put their legs behind their head.

"If you are thinking what I think you are, then stop. I have a gi...boyfriend. But I can compensate you in other ways."

"Like how?"

"You like drugs—well my papi is a doctor. I can get you way better shit than what you have."

Legal pharmaceuticals—that was his greatest fantasy. But, even in his stoned state, he knew better than to come off as too eager. It was just like at the garage when he had to pretend like he wasn't ripping off the customers that were automotively retarded.

"I can get some proof. But you better keep your end up."

"Get me some proof and I will get you so fucked up that your heart will stop. You'll be convinced that you have died."

Marcus felt himself drooling.

X—X—X—X—X

"Stupid Blaine," Rachel cursed under her breath as she left the bathroom, having just answered the call of nature after rehearsal ended. She did not know why he had to suggest _California Gurls _by Katy Perry. Or why Mr. Schue felt the need for the females (all three of them) to dress the part, just because the song went "daisy dukes, bikinis on top."

To make matters worse, she got numerous looks as she walked down the hall to the dressing room. It reminded her of last year when she got the idea to wear that schoolgirl outfit; the gazes were almost identical. This was especially true with Jacob—who kept following after her and ducking behind something when she turned around. When it got to be too annoying, Rachel decided to tell him off.

"Word of wisdom, if you are going to be stealthy then don't have a giant afr...rrrroooo," Rachel cried out, having flipped around to face not her annoying stalker but instead someone she detested far greater. He looked a little taller and had a few more tattoos than she remembered, but she would never forget him—not in a billion years.

"Long time no see," he said, his snake like tongue slithering from his slimy mouth (an admitted exaggeration, but it was how Rachel saw the creep).

"Get away from me," she demanded, backing away slowly. "I'll scream."

"I just want to talk to you," he assured. He stuck one of his tattoo covered arms out, it slowly inching towards her like a hungry lion.

Rachel did the only thing she could think of—she ran. On and on she ran. She didn't have to look to know that he was following after; it just motivated her to move faster. And amazingly, even though he was wearing a track uniform, he staggered like an octogenarian with a cane.

"Wait up," he panted as he fell back even more.

Rachel, of course, didn't listen and kept running, very glad that she had gone with the boots rather than the stilettos—even a pathetically out of shape guy like him could catch her in those.

Even when he was out of sight she kept moving, knowing that he'd get a second wind eventually. She figured that she could find a place to hide in the meantime; perhaps a spare classroom, seeing as that was the last place he'd ever look for her.

But, much to her dismay, all the classrooms were locked, Mr. Schue's included. Damn. And the keys to her Camry were with her clothes, back in the dressing room. Damn, again.

"What can I do?" she asked herself. She knew that if she went the way she came that she'd run into him again. And, seeing as this wasn't a spy movie, she likened that there weren't any secret passages.

"Rachel!" his creepy voice called out, sending immense shivers down her spine.

Feeling his evil presence grow closer, Rachel pushed herself forward, running and attempting to open doors simultaneously. She got lock after lock—at least until, miraculously, she managed to open a door. And once inside, she locked it and ducked down, holding her breath as she waited.

"Rachel, wait!" He sounded close. He called out again and again, each time sounding closer than the last. Eventually he sounded like he was right outside; it made Rachel fear that she had been spotted and that he'd knock down the door and do unspeakable things to her.

"Rachel, where the fuck are you? Screw this, I've got to get to the garage." And with that, she heard his loud footsteps stomp away, allowing her to exhale the breath that she had been holding in.

"That was a close one, huh?" said the unmistakable voice of Quinn Fabray, which caused Rachel to nearly jump out of her skin.

"Quinn! You almost gave me a heart attack," Rachel scolded. Rachel rose from her hiding spot to get a better look at her...whatever...who had been snooping around for some reason. "Why are you here?"

"Why are you here? And who was that guy out there?"

"Uh, just a guy who was...trying to slushie me. But I gave him the slip," Rachel lied, not caring to delve that much into her personal life with the girl who barely tolerated her, at least that was how Rachel saw their..._relationship._

"Oh," Quinn responded, her voice lacking interest. She then went back to her snooping, and her doing so made Rachel realize that they were in the room that the Troubletones rehearsed in.

Rachel wanted to ask Quinn why she was snooping around the Troubletones choir room, but she had a strong hunch that it had something to do with Shelby...and Beth, also. That was why Quinn had dragged her into this mess. All because of something that she had no part in. But who said life was fair?

And as Rachel walked closer, she noticed something that she hadn't a minute ago—and that was that Quinn hadn't changed out of her outfit from the number, either. Quinn was wearing a doozy: red sneakers, green striped bikini top and shorts that didn't even cover one-third of her quads. It filled Rachel with the same hunger that she got when she looked at Quinn's pictures.

"Uh, Rach, what the hell are you starring at?" It looked like it didn't get past Quinn, either.

Rachel didn't respond; she just lynched forward, eyes full of lust. When in close proximity to Quinn, she lightly pushed her, guiding her towards the empty table that was in this room for some reason.

"Seriously, Berry, what the fu—" Quinn didn't get to finish that statement, thanks to Rachel, who seemed to have developed strength far greater than her skinny body would allow, forcing Quinn back. And this kept up till Quinn was shoved onto the table, looking completely helpless.

"Now you are mine," Rachel declared, a gleam in her eye. It was almost like Santana was channeling her feisty and rambunctious spirit into her. Oh that Santana—such a good friend. Rachel would have to send her a complimentary muffin basket, after she finished this.

But first things first.

Taking hold of of Quinn's shorts by the seam, Rachel pulled them down without even bothering to unbutton them. This earned her a puzzled glance, but she paid it no heed and continued, not stopping until they were free and sitting on the floor, thus freeing Rachel to admire Quinn's long, smooth legs—more importantly, what lie between them. And the only thing separating Rachel from her prize was a light blue thong—almost exactly the same shade as the robe that Quinn had worn back on the night of their first encounter.

"You sure like blue, huh?" Rachel lightly rubbed Quinn's crotch through the fabric, earning a small "yip" as a result. "What's that?" She was teasing, obviously. It felt nice to be the dominant one for a change.

After rubbing the fabric some more, Rachel lowered her body, putting her head on eye level with Quinn's pelvis, shortly followed by placing a few kisses on her right inner thigh. And, to not play favorites, she did the same with the left. That done, she turned back to the thong, it now bearing a decent sized wet spot.

Getting there, Rachel thought, just before she looped a finger in the fabric of the crotch and pulled it away. She eyed her prize and licked her lips hungrily. But, as much as she wanted to dive in, she knew she couldn't. She could almost hear Santana's voice in her head, chanting:

"Make her work for it!"

And that's what Rachel decided she would do. Taking her index finger, she glided over the entrance slowly—painstakingly slowly. That resulted in a soft moan, and never one to displease, she replicated the action again, and then a third time.

"Shit, Rach, put it in me already!"

Rachel shook her head, though figured it for moot, considering Quinn likely wasn't even looking down. Regardless, Rachel decided to turn up the intensity to three—and by that, she grabbed hold of Quinn's thong and pulled it off in one quick succession, carefully setting it down on top of Quinn's discarded shorts.

And now Quinn's lower body was completely uncovered and all Rachel's for the enjoying and such. Just look at her pussy, so petite. You'd never believe that Quinn had a baby no more than a year and some odd months ago. Rachel desperately wanted to taste it—get the feel of it. But she had to make Quinn want it even more than she herself did; Quinn was the one who used to boast some chant about how you should tease and not please—or some shit like that.

It appeared that Quinn was going to eat her words—that was if she wanted Rachel to eat something else.

Snickering at her own wit, Rachel planted a few more kisses on Quinn's inner thigh. So close to the Promised Land...and yet, so far. And each time that Rachel teased, she was rewarded with another groan or whimper. Quinn, the former HBIC, at the mercy of her—one of, if not the, biggest outcasts in school. The irony was delicious.

And right after Rachel went past Quinn's throbbing center, instead choosing to plant a kiss just above on Quinn's abdomen, Quinn all but bawled in patheticness. And though Rachel felt no guilt (and with good reason, considering what she had been put through the previous week), she still decided to show a plea of mercy and let Quinn see what a girl who practiced scales for thirty minutes a day, four times a week, was capable of.

She could feel the heat radiating between Quinn's legs, even before she got near. She knew that Quinn wanted this—not for the purpose of baby making; no, Quinn wanted this for a whole 'nother reason.

And, Rachel thought, finally letting her tongue run over Quinn's entrance, she was going to do her damnedest to see to it that she fulfilled that reason.

Rachel kept it simple at first, only gracing Quinn's out-most walls. But when Quinn's repeated cries of "more" got to be too much, Rachel pulled away, and, before Quinn could protest, gently pulled open Quinn's flower, being rewarded with a V.I.P view of the moist, pink walls that her tongue, which seemed to act on its own accord, quickly attacked.

Delicious, thought Rachel, her taste buds tingling at Quinn's unique flavor. She let her tongue go all over, hoping to hit every inch of moistness. And when she hit against something small and hard, which, upon impact, made Quinn dispel a moan that easily dwarfed the others, Rachel knew that she found Quinn's clit. She struck it again and again with her tongue, then abandoned that and took the entire thing in her mouth and started sucking on it...hard.

"Fuck, baby!" Quinn cried as her body thrashed back and forth; Rachel felt Quinn's strong quads wrap around her neck, almost perfectly mirroring their third time.

Rachel managed to cock her head a bit, shooting a puzzled glance at the woman who was squirming and flailing. Did Quinn just call her baby?

"Please...more...please!" Quinn's sneaker covered feet pushed into her back, the heels stabbing into her upper lat area.

Rachel pulled her mouth away, making a soft plop. She then looked up, smiling wickedly as she took her index finger and ran it over Quinn's entrance again, again getting an impatient moan. But that was just the diversion. The diversion that allowed Rachel to enter Quinn, and do so fast and hard—resulting in the loudest moan, yet. And Rachel didn't miss a beat as she pumped her finger in and out, using every trick that she learned from Santana, and a few she thought up herself.

Rachel could feel Quinn's walls tighten; she knew that she was pushing her closer to the edge. The thoughts of getting Quinn off, to give Quinn the feeling that she herself had experienced during their encounters, inspired her to do one final move. Pulling out, she took a deep breath and shoved her index and middle finger in and doubled her pace. Once that was going, she added her thumb to the mix, it immediately finding and rubbing Quinn's clit.

Rachel could feel it at all: the heat that Quinn radiated, the walls of her vagina encasing her fingers, the cries of ecstasy that Quinn bellowed out. And though Rachel felt her arm grow stiff and her body grow hot, she kept at, gliding in and out with precision.

"R...a...a..." Quinn stuttered weakly.

"Come for me!" Rachel demanded, looking up with her flushed face. Quinn's walls convulsed more and more; Rachel knew Quinn was there—but would not let go. It looked liked she needed a little help. And Rachel knew just what to do. Curving her middle finger, she plunged it up, hitting what she knew was the spot—the spot that would put Quinn over.

Before she felt Quinn's walls convulse, before she felt her finger be covered by a warm and sticky substance, before she heard Quinn mutter a series of expletives that would rival any drunken sailor, Rachel saw it. It was just for a second, but she saw it. The look. The look on Quinn's face. It was a look of pure and total satisfaction.

It gave Rachel an odd feeling. Was it pride? Lust? Possibly even lo—

"You can pull out...or whatever," Quinn gasped heavily, snapping Rachel out of her thoughts and making her look up to see the result of her efforts. Rachel thought her face was flushed—it was nothing compared to Quinn, who was sweating, breathing heavily and had cheeks so red you'd think she was running a 102 fever.

Rachel could only nod in response and did as instructed. Her finger glistened with Quinn's juice—that she immediately licked off (no need to waste). She thought about also licking up the juice around Quinn's pussy, some that was running down her leg, then figured that would be pushing it.

"So, see you in class?" Rachel asked, acting subtle but also hopeful; she knew that she wouldn't be at all opposed to seeing Quinn sooner—like, perhaps, tonight.

But Rachel didn't get a response...in any form. Quinn just sat there in her sort of leaned over position—panting heavily and not looking at all there. Rachel didn't know what to do. But she knew that she couldn't stick around and risk getting caught. So, picking herself up, she headed towards the door, stopping and pocketing Quinn's thong on her way.

And as she headed towards the dressing room, running her fingers over the stolen garment and getting the feel of the silky fabric, she found that she could hold her head up high once again. She hadn't felt this sort of pride since she clinched the team's victory at Regionals last year and was awarded the most valuable player trophy. So much, in fact, that she actually started skipping, earning her a few "WTF" looks from the after school patrons. But she didn't give a fuck. She had proven, without a doubt, that she could make Quinn Fabray feel good in the sexual sense. It gave Rachel hope that, regardless if this baby thing did or didn't work out, Quinn might want to continue their encounters. And from there...maybe even more.

Little Rachel writhed in her shorts—clearly it was from excitement. Not at the thought of another sexual encounter. No, Rachel knew what her penis was getting excited at.

It was at the thought that maybe, just maybe, she may end up in a relationship with Quinn Fabray.

And that made her excited as well.


End file.
